


The Art of Apologies

by Esteliel



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Asshole Spanking, Dirty Talk, Face Slapping, Hate Sex, M/M, Power Play, Riding Crops, Size Kink, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-02 01:07:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6544264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The truth about their meetings, Hamilton thought, wasn't that he was desperate for the votes Jefferson had provided.</p><p>It was the fact that Jefferson was so desperate for <i>him</i> that made Hamilton seek this out again and again. After all, why demand such a personal payment for what had been a simple political transaction?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Apologies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueteak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/gifts).



> Thank you to v. for your help with this!

“What _would_ you do for those votes?”

That was how it had started, Jefferson leaning in with his eyes wide and attentive and cruel, all cat-like grace and sharp claws. And Hamilton had writhed helplessly, ever aware of the delight in those brown eyes.

“The capitol—” he began, and Jefferson wiped his words away with an impatient gesture.

“Yes, yes. That is without question. My dear Hamilton, if I hadn't known you would give me that, you wouldn't be sitting here.”

Affronted, Hamilton leaned back in his seat. His eyes slid towards Madison, who pretended that his dinner was in need of his utmost attention.

“Or maybe this is a question we should save for after dessert...” Jefferson said innocently.

“No,” Hamilton said hastily, embarrassed by how obvious his need for an agreement was. Then came the anger at being driven into a corner. Jefferson thought that he was a mouse to toy with?

Jefferson had no idea what he was capable of.

“Anything,” he said, holding Jefferson's gaze even as the man's eyes widened just a little more, that shock for once not affectation, but genuine. “So name your demands.”

“Ah,” Jefferson said, and there was a deep satisfaction below that one, single word, as though Hamilton had just handed him the final clue to solve a mystery. “In that case, we should indeed save it for after dessert.”

Madison began coughing into his dinner all of a sudden while Jefferson leaned back, idly playing with his wine glass.

Hamilton had no idea what had just happened, but he knew it couldn't be good. Nothing that made Jefferson smile like that could be good.

***

It was, in fact, worse than Hamilton had imagined.

Or better than what he had hoped for. He could not quite say anymore. There were no concessions to make. Jefferson asked for nothing he wasn't willing to give.

That was the main problem.

When they had finished their dessert, Jefferson licking his spoon with abandon like the cat that got the cream, Madison had reluctantly left. Maybe that should have come as a warning to Hamilton.

For at this very moment, Hamilton found himself naked, kneeling reluctantly, and silent—even more reluctantly.

In fact, it was proving a lot harder to keep quiet than he had expected. It was no hardship at all to kneel, but that was a piece of information he was not going to share with Jefferson, who was currently beaming at him, to all appearances more than pleased with how their negotiations were working out.

“You're speechless!” Jefferson said in delight. “Well, that is a first! Perhaps our partnership will yet work out, Secretary Hamilton.”

“I would not bet on—”

Hamilton's retort was cut short when Jefferson backhanded him. Pain blazed across his cheek, and a moment later, Hamilton found himself glaring at Jefferson, humiliated and angry once more.

“Better. Now please keep silent when you are told.” Idly, Jefferson tapped the armrest of his chair. “Well, that alone was almost worth it,” he muttered to himself while Hamilton glared defiantly.

“Actually... I do enjoy this!”

Once more he slapped Hamilton who gasped and stared at him, seething with impotent hatred. Jefferson had moved more slowly this time. The slap had _hurt_ —but much of the sting came from the shock of it, and from the disdain behind it.

A disdain and a helplessness Hamilton hadn't felt since that fateful day when he had punched the bursar of Princeton College.

He panted. His cheek felt hot. His lip ached, and when he prodded it carefully with the tip of his tongue, he found it hot and swollen as well. There was a small cut at the corner of his mouth; he licked at it, tasting the iron tang of his own blood, and then froze, wide-eyed, when Jefferson's hand came closer once more.

Jefferson grasped his chin. “Damn,” he said, voice hushed. “Don't look at me like that. You make me want to...”

His finger prodded at Hamilton's mouth, slid slowly over his aching lip until it reached the tiny cut. There it lingered, and Hamilton, who still felt the heated imprint of Jefferson's hand against his cheek, shivered at the warmth that throbbed through him.

It was his hatred, he told himself, glaring at the arrogant, infuriating man who'd taken advantage of the fact that Hamilton _really_ needed those votes.

On the other hand, all things considered, this was an easier price to pay than any political concession Jefferson could have asked for.

When Hamilton bit Jefferson's finger, it definitely wasn't because he'd wanted that sting again, although he was expecting it when it came—pain exploding across his cheek for a second so that he laughed, exhilarated by the fact that he could, in fact, make Jefferson do exactly what he wanted.

And then Jefferson's fingers were in his mouth. For a long moment, he stopped thinking as he sucked on them ( _angrily_ , he told himself), his lips still aching as he pressed his tongue to Jefferson's fingers, tasting the salt of his skin and the roughness of his knuckles.

“Enough.”

When Jefferson pulled his hand back, it was Jefferson who was glaring. They were both panting now. Hamilton's chin was slick with his spit, his tongue still tasting Jefferson on it, and somehow, the sensation made him feel triumphant.

He hadn't thought it would be so easy to make Jefferson lose control.

***

Making Jefferson lose control quickly became a pastime.

Two meetings and several cabinet battles later, Hamilton was moaning, dazed and hoarse. Sweat was dripping down his back. It had taken Jefferson a while to catch up in this game they were playing—but now, at last, all thoughts had fled Hamilton's mind. There was nothing but the trembling of his limbs, the ache between his legs, the heat of his skin as he shuddered.

“If you could only see yourself,” Jefferson said. Although the words were smug, his voice was hoarse as well. Somewhere in the back of Hamilton's mind, there was a small moment of triumph at having caused this proud man to lose control once more.

The truth about their meetings, Hamilton thought, wasn't that he was desperate for the votes Jefferson had provided.

It was the fact that Jefferson was so desperate for _him_ that made Hamilton seek this out again and again. After all, why demand such a personal payment for what had been a simple political transaction?

Jefferson's hand smoothed over Hamilton's backside. His trousers were around his knees. They were in Washington's office, and Jefferson had forced him to bend over Washington's desk like a disobedient schoolboy.

“Does daddy know how eager you were to make a deal with me?” Jefferson breathed, and then his hand came down.

Hamilton choked back a groan at the stinging impact.

“I admit, it makes it so much more amusing to watch your prancing around in Congress when I know that for every single, tedious minute I am forced to listen to you, I can later enact my revenge.”

Again Jefferson's hand came down. Hamilton gasped, his eyes stinging from tears he tried to hold back.

“But what I enjoy the most is the fact that I can finally make you shut up.”

Once more Jefferson's hand fell onto his aching skin. This time, Hamilton whimpered and shifted. Cruelty had made Jefferson choose the exact same spot of skin, and that part of his buttocks was burning like fire now.

Slowly, Jefferson's hand trailed up the inside of his thigh. Higher and higher it wandered. Finally, a finger teased around the rim of his hole, and Hamilton tensed, another whimper escaping him. He was hard, had been hard for a while despite the pain, and now Jefferson's fingers called up the shame of that once more.

With a chuckle, Jefferson released him just when Hamilton's trembling thighs slid apart in an unconscious plea for more.

“It's not even a good deal,” Jefferson muttered. For once, he sounded confused, as though he wasn't quite certain why they were playing this game.

Because there was really only one reason to play such a game. Revenge. And Jefferson's touch had always felt far too self-serving for revenge.

Then Jefferson's hand connected with his backside one more. The slap was lazy, but the sting sufficed to make Hamilton gasp.

“Get up. And get dressed!” Jefferson commanded. “He'll be back any moment.”

His buttocks were still burning fiercely when Jefferson strode out of Washington's office, Washington's voice already audible in the corridor so that Hamilton had to hurry as he buttoned his trousers with trembling hands.

He was still hard. So hard that the ache of it was almost worse than the ache of his buttocks.

But Jefferson had been hard as well, and as much as the man pretended it wasn't happening, Hamilton had seen the bulge in his trousers clearly when he strode out.

No, he wasn't the only one getting punished here...

***

Hamilton had been hard for a week. At least that's what it had felt like. He'd been hard for a week, and had Jefferson called for him even once to play one of his little games? No.

The whole situation had started like this.

Jefferson had taunted him during one of their debates. Furious, Hamilton had retaliated. Words might have fallen which Hamilton was later ready to admit should perhaps not have been used on the Congress floor, save that Jefferson had obviously provoked him and in any case deserved every single remark hurled his way, including a rather graphic description of what else might fit should Jefferson bend over for Washington's new stallion.

Hamilton rather thought he might have used the word Virginians too once or twice. This was without doubt the reason Washington had sent Jefferson home and then had spent a good half hour dressing down Hamilton, who had to bear it all with clenched teeth, unable to forget the way Jefferson had smirked as he took his leave, and just what this desk had been used for the last time he had seen Jefferson in Washington's office.

“I want you to apologize to Secretary Jefferson,” Washington said, jarring the rather pleasant detour Hamilton's thoughts had taken.

“Whaaa—? But sir!” Hamilton began, ready to put forth once more the irrefutable argument that a man who smirked at him the way Jefferson did without doubt not only deserved every single word he had spoken, but only reacted with such outrage because it was the truth, and also—

“Now!” Washington barked, his eyes gleaming dangerously. “I have warned you numerous times, son. You will go to Jefferson—yes, you will, I will hear no more arguments!—and you will apologize, and if there is even one rumor of you calling him out, I swear to God I will—”

“Oh, never, sir,” Hamilton said innocently. “Not a duel, not I!” Under his breath he muttered something about not wasting a bullet on infuriating pompous self-loving Virginians until Washington grabbed his coat and bodily shoved him out of his office.

“I don't care what it takes,” Washington said through clenched teeth, “but I won't see you back in here until you've apologized.”

This was not, in fact, how it had truly started.

It had started the moment he had walked into the stable, sullen and angry like a cat with its hackles raised at the prospect of having to suck up to the bastard who'd love nothing better than hear him apologize after he'd already forced Hamilton to do all sorts of humiliating things. There, he'd found Jefferson idly patting the nose of the huge gray stallion whose dick Hamilton had described in rather candid detail going up his ass.

“Well, well,” Jefferson said when he saw him and smirked.

Hamilton, unfortunately, had forgotten Washington's command and all the many reasons why he hated Jefferson, Democratic-Republicans and Virginians in general because Jefferson was wearing riding breeches and knee-length black leather boots, holding a riding crop in one hand which he now lightly slapped against his boots.

But mostly it was the riding breeches that made Hamilton lose his train of thought.

“You wouldn't possibly be inclined to give me the name of your tailor, sir?” he asked, mouth dry as he stared. Only then did he remember why he was here, and why he hated Jefferson.

In answer, Jefferson laughed softly in delight. He leaned back against the wall of the stable, one hand still stroking the stallion's nose. Hamilton couldn't look away from where his shifting limbs splayed to reveal a sizable bulge in his breeches.

More than sizable.

Hamilton licked his lips. His mouth felt dry. He swallowed, his face hot, and still he couldn't stop staring.

Jefferson's tailor had fitted his breeches so tightly that they looked as though they had been painted on. In fact, Hamilton could see very clearly that Jefferson had forgotten a coin in one of his pockets, whose outline was displayed distinctly against the tight fabric.

But what drew his eyes was the bulge between Jefferson's legs. The ivory fabric stretched taut there, a huge, thick outline giving away not only the shape of an immense shaft, but also the curves of firm balls beneath.

Hamilton only barely bit back a groan when at his gaze, the large bulge shifted, Jefferson's cock giving what seemed to him a twitch of interest, the already tight fabric forced to stretch further as the huge cock growing even as he watched.

“Secretary Hamilton,” Jefferson now drawled.

Hamilton still found it impossible to raise his eyes.

“What brings you here?”

Hamilton licked his lips again, imagining the full size of that cock in his mouth, the weight of it on his tongue. Would Jefferson be cruel enough to force him to take it all?

Of course he would be.

Jefferson's eyes gleamed when Hamilton finally managed to raise his eyes.

“Um,” Hamilton said.

Jefferson laughed and slapped his thigh—there was nothing malicious in the gesture for once, and Hamilton grew flustered at seeing Jefferson so honestly amused.

“So that is what it takes to make you shut up,” Jefferson said after a moment, eyes still full of mirth. “My, my. Though maybe I should have guessed.”

Again his crop slapped his boot. The sound of it sent a jolt through Hamilton. He felt dizzy. It was hard to concentrate, and that had never happened before—damn Jefferson, who must have certainly employed his tailor with the sole reason of making Hamilton speechless with the full display of such a... wealth.

“I'm getting impatient, Mr. Hamilton,” Jefferson pointed out. He was still smiling, although most of the mirth had left. Instead, his gaze had regained that particular focus that Hamilton knew so well.

He took a deep breath. Better to get this over with quickly. And really, all Washington had demanded was an apology. Hadn't he already done worse for Jefferson? Jefferson would find a way to make this demeaning, sure—but certainly it couldn't be worse than bending over Washington's own desk.

Blood rushed to Hamilton's face once more at the memory. And not only to his face. Blood was pulsing between his legs, his cock heavy and aching with sick arousal. He forced himself to ignore it as best as he could.

“I have come to apologize,” he said, the words coming out stilted and forced. “Sir.”

“Have you,” Jefferson murmured and tilted his head to study him.

Hamilton felt the familiar seething start once more. It was like Jefferson could switch on the rage in him with just a look.

Damn that man.

“And is that all?” Jefferson asked conversationally. “Because that sounded neither sincere nor appropriate, considering just what you said earlier. Just sayin'!”

Hamilton clenched his jaw.

“Come here,” Jefferson said after a moment and raised his hand to gesture. Hamilton tried not to stare at where the tightly stretched fabric of his breeches shifted along the massive length concealed beneath.

“Now apologize again. _Sincerely_ ,” Jefferson said, the small smirk back and accompanied by an expectant look once Hamilton was standing in front of him.

Hamilton licked his lips. “I'm... I want to apologize for...”

He took a deep breath. Then another.

Then he dropped to his knees, right there on the stable floor, the ground hard and cold against his knees. He pressed his mouth to the large shape of Jefferson's cock, nuzzling at it desperately through the fabric.

The cloth had been forced to stretch so much to accommodate the sizable erection that he could feel the heat of Jefferson's cock through his breeches. He moaned against it, pressed his tongue flat to the large bulge. It twitched again at his touch and he mouthed upwards, hungry and desperate, until he reached the head of his cock.

“Please,” he moaned, the word muffled as he tried to suck at it through the fabric.

His cock ached. There was a dull roar in his head, the echo of his pulse, his fingers trembling as he fought the need to touch himself. Jefferson was hard and large, and even with the fabric between them, he could already taste a hint of Jefferson's desire. He wanted him in his mouth. He wanted the taste of him on his tongue, wanted to be forced to struggle to take all of him, that entire immense shape filling his mouth and his throat until he couldn't breathe...

Jefferson's riding crop tapped his cheek.

“That's not an apology,” Jefferson said and raised a brow. “Look at you. Panting for it. And you can't even apologize. What will Washington say?”

Hamilton groaned, his face burning. Jefferson was still so close that all he needed to do was lean forward to kiss his shaft again, lick and suck at the fabric until it was wet...

“What sort of apology do you want?” he asked, trying to sound sullen. Even to his own ears he sounded pathetically needy.

“Get up. Drop those trousers. And lean against the wall,” Jefferson demanded immediately.

Hamilton couldn't quite bite back the hungry sound that escaped. He groaned as he obeyed, his swollen cock chafing against the already damp fabric of his breeches. He pushed them down eagerly, ignoring the way his stomach twisted with fear at the way he exposed himself here in the stable, a public place where anyone could see.

What if a stable boy came in...?

Then Jefferson's hand came to rest between his shoulder blades and pushed him mercilessly forward.

“So,” Jefferson said, his breath ghosting against Hamilton's ear. “I believe you were rather interested in the places the prick of this fine stallion here might go. Isn't that right?”

Hamilton sputtered in outrage when he turned his head and saw the beast watching them. Then there was a touch against the inside of his thigh. The leather tip of the crop, stroking him slowly, almost gently, and then tracing upwards.

“What if I were to tell you,” Jefferson murmured, bending forward until his lips brushed Hamilton's ear, “that the only apology I will accept is the sight of your hole taking that entire cock? Would you do that if I commanded it? Would you let a stallion fuck you open with its huge dick?”

Hamilton groaned, mortified by the way his own cock twitched in response to Jefferson's filth.

The crop made its way up higher. Jefferson's breath was hot and fast against his skin. “I think,” he finally purred, “I think you'd let the stallion fuck you if I promised I'd fuck you afterwards, with your hole all open and stretched and sloppy with horse seed. Would you like that? You would, wouldn't you, filthy little whore.”

Hamilton choked back a moan, trembling against the rough wood of the wall. He breathed in dust and dirt and expensive perfume. He thought of the shape of Jefferson's cock against his lips, thick and large.

Slowly, Jefferson used the flat tip of his crop to rub against the underside of his balls. He lifted them lightly, rubbing back and forth, and Hamilton whimpered, his legs spreading in unconscious invitation.

Then the crop came down onto his buttocks. Hamilton cried out and arched against the wall. Again the crop came down, raising a line of fire so that he panted, his fingers scrambling against the rough wood of the wall.

“Spread your legs,” Jefferson murmured, quiet and delighted. “Come on. Show me you mean that apology.”

Hamilton clenched his teeth. His buttocks burned. The pain was quite unlike the punishment Jefferson had once delivered with his bare hands, which had been mostly humiliation. This was fast and merciless and stung like fire. Already there were tears pooling in his eyes, and when he forced his legs to slide apart, bearing the most vulnerable parts of his body to Jefferson's merciless gaze, they began to fall.

This time, the crop came down hard onto the inside of his thigh, and he sobbed once before he managed to bite down on the sound.

Jefferson made a thoughtful sound. Then the crop came down again onto his other thigh. A jolt went through his entire body. Jefferson did not relent, and even as the pain spread until his nerves felt aflame with pain, Hamilton was still hard, his cock throbbing insistently as it was squashed between the rough wall and his stomach.

Again the crop rubbed against his balls. Hamilton whined, desperate now. The crop trailed higher as though Jefferson had finally chosen to be merciful, rubbing over his hole while Hamilton gasped for breath and had to force himself to not rut against the wall.

Then the crop was lifted. When it came down again, it was aimed straight at the crease between his buttocks, painting a searing line of pain right across his hole.

Hamilton sobbed, more tears dripping down his cheeks. His shoulders shook. It ached so fiercely that instinct made him reach out to ward off more of this punishment—but Jefferson grabbed his wrist hard, and, shaking, Hamilton held himself still, his body still throbbing with pain and arousal.

“No, no, that won't do,” Jefferson said thoughtfully. “Here. Hold yourself spread. Like this.”

Face flushed and wet with tears, Hamilton swallowed back a disbelieving groan when Jefferson grabbed his hands and then placed him where he wanted them.

Hamilton was panting. He was a mess, aching and crying and still appallingly hard. He should leave. He had every right to leave. Already this was more than Jefferson deserved in terms of an apology.

Instead he remained in position, head bowed, choking on his own sobs and horrified arousal as he grasped his buttocks and held himself spread open, his hole that still throbbed relentlessly from the ache of the lashing Jefferson had given him on display.

“Good. Now hold still,” Jefferson warned, his voice throaty and low. It sent another jolt of helpless arousal through Hamilton.

Once more the crop came down. Hamilton could hear the sound it made as it moved through the air, a slight swoosh—and then came the impact, his aching hole hit hard, pain like fire burning right through that tender, thin skin.

Again he sobbed, all of his muscles tensing as he forced himself to stay in position and bear Jefferson's torture. His nails bit into his skin. He was gasping through his tears as he waited for more.

And then Jefferson hit him once more and he moaned in despair, dizzy at the heartbeat of agony that cut through him like lightning. His hole felt sore and swollen. It contracted helplessly, the tight muscle twitching under the relentless battering. There had to be welts by now, Hamilton thought through his tears, surely there had to be welts by now; everything was pulsing with pain, and still his cock was so hard it hurt, his balls drawn up tightly, aching and full.

“There,” Jefferson murmured. “I'll take that as an apology from you. For today,” he added when he grasped Hamilton's hands and pulled them away, then helped him turn around with surprising gentleness.

Jefferson's gaze trailed downward to take in the state of Hamilton's cock, dark with blood and throbbing with need. He smirked a little, although he didn't say a word. Hamilton shivered when Jefferson's thumb brushed along his swollen lips, still dizzy from the heat that had consumed his body.

Instinct said to bite down on it.

Instinct said to suck it into his mouth and lick the salt from Jefferson's skin.

Instead, confused and shaking, he waited as Jefferson stared at him, eyes on his mouth, his gaze dark and intense.

Finally Jefferson's fingers tightened a little—only to release Hamilton in the next second and take a step away. His breeches, Hamilton noted, were now forced to stretch even more as the shaft hidden beneath had unfurled to its entire, impressive size. There was a noticeably damp spot near the tip.

The sight made him moan again. He had to reach out to hold himself up with one hand against the wall, suddenly light-headed.

“I think,” Jefferson muttered somewhere in front of him, “that you will not ride today. I shall call you a carriage.”

Jefferson was gone before Hamilton could remark on that sudden kindness.

***

It was the year 1800, and to speak the truth, Alexander Hamilton had not thought about Jefferson or the promise he had made him in rather a long time.

In fact, Jefferson too seemed to have silently agreed that this was a series of events best to leave behind and unacknowledged, the further their political paths led forward and twisted. Perhaps it was the careful equilibrium that had existed between them—or perhaps it was the way that for one moment, something between them seemed to have shifted when Jefferson had looked into his eyes, fingers touching his mouth with the tender carefulness of a kiss.

Quite possibly it was simply the fact that Jefferson—a smart man in at least a chosen few regards, Hamilton had to admit—had realized at last just what rumors might pop up should someone have found him disciplining a half naked Secretary of the Treasury in the stable.

In any case, Hamilton was surprised to receive an invitation written in the careful hand of James Madison. He was less surprised when over the course of a strained dinner, it became clear that Jefferson had arrived at a spot where he needed—or at least seemed to have convinced that he needed—Hamilton on his side against the unpredictable force that was Aaron Burr's campaigning.

Hamilton, who lately had spent more time quietly walking the streets than thinking about Burr's career or even Jefferson's wicked demands, found that he rather enjoyed being wanted. There was a familiarity to this: the invisible push and pull of loaded conversation around a dinner table as they all pretended to ignore the obvious issue of what was at stake.

And of course, a small part of him could not be amused that after all this time—and after what Jefferson had done to him—Jefferson would woo him for his approval now.

Over the course of the meal, skills that had seen little use lately were drawn out and exercised. By the end of the meal and the loaded small talk, Hamilton found himself smiling faintly. There was a certain pleasure in exchanging barbed remarks with Jefferson. There always had been. If there was one constant in their relationship, then it was that the man had always managed to rile him up—and vice versa. He _had_ been rather good at making Jefferson lose control...

So far he had managed to evade the real reason for why Jefferson had sought to wine and dine him, but with the return of old skills and the familiarity of these cozy dinners where decisions were made behind closed doors, some of the old recklessness had also returned.

“Will you not stay for another drink?” Jefferson asked, sprawling back in his chair with that same easy smile that had never failed to raise Hamilton's hackles—perhaps for the very reason that it was so very nearly impossible to resist the full force of its charm.

Madison coughed politely. “I'll leave you to your drinks,” he muttered and then fled, as though he'd picked up on the not-quite politically charged tension in the room.

He probably had, Hamilton thought glumly. Jefferson had probably shared all of his earlier exploits in delighted detail.

“So,” Jefferson said, his smile widening until it looked a little like a grimace.

“I'm intrigued you didn't just try to order me to support you,” Hamilton said, cutting to the chase before Jefferson had time to talk around what they both knew was on the table.

Jefferson's brows rose, and he gave Hamilton a scandalized look.

“Order you to support me?” he repeated, and for all that Hamilton had not once agreed with Jefferson, he couldn't look away from the way his eyes gleamed, or the way his fingers tapped impatiently against the stem of his wine glass.

“You insult me.”

“Oh, we both know you could have!” Hamilton said with a frown. Whether he would have done it was a different question, of course. But he had once promised Jefferson anything. So to be wooed now instead of commanded was not something he had ever expected would happen. “What happened, did you forget our deal?”

“Ha!” Jefferson said, looking nonplussed for once. “You keep surprising me. No, I've most definitely not forgotten that deal. But that was then, and... I do believe you paid your debt to me in full.”

Again his fingers ran up the stem of his glass, and for a moment he sounded thoughtful. Then, a heartbeat later, he looked up to fix Hamilton with another grin, eyes dark and wicked. “Had I known that you missed it, believe me, I would have demanded your endorsement sooner.”

“But,” Hamilton said calmly, enjoying the way Jefferson's grin fell away to be replaced by puzzlement at his words, “as you said, that was then, and that old debt was paid in full. So.”

“So,” Jefferson echoed, staring at him like a cat confused that the mouse had just taken up arms against it.

“So. I propose to you another deal.” A part of Hamilton was already breathless. How quickly that old dizziness returned in the presence of this infuriating man.

“And your demands?” Jefferson spoke slowly, carefully, his eyes narrow as though he was trying to navigate unknown waters. He probably was, Hamilton thought. Not many men had ever had an advantage over him, and even less had tried to use it against Jefferson.

Hamilton swallowed. He thought of the shape of Jefferson's cock beneath his breeches, the way it had throbbed against his lips. He thought of the way Jefferson had made him sob and arch.

He thought of how Jefferson's fingers had been tender against his mouth, his eyes wide and uncertain for that one, fateful moment.

“Fuck me,” he said. He stared at Jefferson, then repeated it. “Fuck me. That's my demand.”

Jefferson's head tilted. His eyes widened almost comically—and then that same, familiar cruel smile spread across his face once more. Heat gathered in Hamilton's stomach, pooled between his legs.

“My dear Hamilton,” he murmured, “had I known that was the price of your support we could have put aside those differences between us a long time ago.”

Jefferson was still toying with his wine glass as he stared at Hamilton. How strange to have that focus on him once more.

And how rewarding to feel that old rush of power, to know that with a look, with a word, he'd brought forth this heat in Jefferson.

Then Jefferson struck, quicksilver-fast and silent as a cat. His hand fisted Hamilton's cravat. He found himself pulled forward until he leaned uncomfortably across the desk. Jefferson's breath was hot on his face. So close, he could see that Jefferson's eyes were wide, almost completely black as they stared at him with delighted, cruel hunger.

“Undress,” Jefferson breathed.

Then he released him and stood. Hamilton had to swallow, but did as he was bid. His hands were shaking a little. When he pushed his breeches down, he was already hard. There were still plates with what was left of their dessert on the table; Hamilton now found himself pushed down between them all of a sudden.

He stared at a tuft of white cream to his left, breathing heavily as Jefferson nudged his legs apart, a hand at the small of his back to hold him down.

“I wish I had the time to make you cry first,” Jefferson murmured, sounding genuinely disappointed for a moment. Hamilton shivered when Jefferson's fingers trailed upwards his exposed thigh, teasing along the crease between his buttocks. “It was quite a sight. I've remembered it all these years.”

Another wave of heat flooded through Hamilton, tension coiling in his stomach as the back of Jefferson's fingers brushed his balls.

He forced himself to hold back the moan that wanted to escape, but he couldn't help the way his back arched, hips canting to beg for more of that touch. Then Jefferson laughed and grabbed his wrists, twisting them behind his back to hold them firmly against the small of his back.

“Look at you. You think you're in power here?” Jefferson breathed with delight. “You think you'll get what you asked for? Oh no. No way. You'll take what you're given, all of it. And then you'll thank me for it. Won't you?”

Hamilton groaned at the sound of Jefferson opening his own breeches, one hand still holding his wrists in place. He could feel him against his thigh now, the skin of his cock silky and hot and _large_ as he slid against him, terrifyingly so.

Hamilton bucked against him with a desperate moan.

“Say please,” Jefferson drawled, rubbing his cock lightly against his crease.

“Please,” Hamilton moaned, squirming impatiently to get more of it. He couldn't see Jefferson, could only see the table and his fine china and the wall with an elegant wooden cabinet, and maybe that was for the best. Because like this, with his body pressed down and Jefferson's cock teasing him, it was so easy to forget what had brought them here, or what divided them.

And perhaps this was what it would take to get it out of his system. For years, he'd thought about that cock, hidden from his view, but large and hard against his lips. Surely after this there would be no more wicked dreams distracting him. With nothing left to the imagination, with the deed finally done and the raw reality of it all ripping away the veils of attraction between them, surely he'd be able to escape the curse of Jefferson's charm once and for all.

There, next to the bowls of cream and chocolate and sugared fruit, stood a small dish of molten butter. Now he could see Jefferson reach out for it. A moment later, he heard the slick sounds of Jefferson massaging it into his cock.

He moaned again as he imagined those fingers wrapped around it, barely able to contain the wealth that he'd once so desperately mouthed at.

Then Jefferson's slick fingers grabbed his ass, spreading him open with his thumbs. He panted, needing it, wanting it like he'd never wanted anything even as Jefferson laughed again, the sound breathless, charming even in its mockery.

“Please,” Hamilton groaned again, arching his back until he felt Jefferson's cock rub against him. How would that even fit? It felt enormous; his body tensed in arousal. “Please, fuck me.”

“So well-behaved now...” Smugly, Jefferson tightened his grip until Hamilton was sure that his fingers would leave bruises at his hip. The head of Jefferson's cock slid against his hole, teasing him, again and again while Hamilton gasped—and then he pushed inside.

Hamilton moaned, overcome when his body surrendered, opening around Jefferson who slid in deeper. Jefferson laughed again, low and mocking. “So greedy for it...”

Hamilton made a desperate little sound and bucked up, arching his back when Jefferson pushed in deeper, deeper and deeper, filling him in a way he had never felt before. It was incredible. The stretch of it burned, but even so he craved it, wanted all of it. Helplessly moaning, he kept pushing back, working himself onto Jefferson's cock until he felt his balls against his skin, Jefferson's fingers digging deep into his hip as the man made a sound of overwhelmed approval.

The sound made him shiver. There. That was why, Hamilton thought, dizzy and full, that was what he wanted: Jefferson losing his composure, Jefferson just as helpless to whatever this was between them...

Jefferson's hands relaxed slightly as he pulled back. They stroked Hamilton almost as if to calm him. There was something possessive, nearly affectionate in the gesture—and then Jefferson's hips bucked forward. Once more Hamilton felt the immense length fill him until he groaned at the pressure within him.

He felt tight as a coil. The need was unbearable. Jefferson was panting softly, and then he began to move, sliding almost all the way out before he pushed back in with hard strokes that made pleasure race up Hamilton's spine like lightning. Heat seared along his nerves until he felt raw, open, completely overwhelmed. Every muscle in his body had tensed; he could barely breathe, and still Jefferson continued to fuck him, taking him so hard that with every forceful push, the legs of the table scraped over the floor.

“You'll feel this when you sit in Congress,” Jefferson whispered into his ear, too breathless to sound threatening, although the image made Hamilton moan regardless. “When they ask you who has your vote, you'll say my name, and you'll think of my cock in your ass, you'll think of how you're still sore, how you want it again, and again, and—”

Hamilton cried out when his entire body convulsed. His cock chafed against the tablecloth as he spilled thick ribbons of his release. Inside him, he felt Jefferson throb, another groan breathed against his neck as Jefferson's hips jerked against his, his seed filling him with pulse after pulse.

“I know you'll remember,” Jefferson sighed lazily when they were resting together for a heartbeat afterwards, both sweaty and exhausted. “Remember this: I'll be remembering it too. Every time I look at you.”

Jefferson laughed against his nape, low and satisfied. Then there came the barest brush of lips against his nape, a kiss—the first, the only—that made Hamilton shiver for a moment, frozen long after Jefferson had released him.

When he finally managed to prop himself up on his arms, hips bruised and his hole sore, Jefferson had already finished cleaning himself up. He was now giving him a satisfied look, eyes lingering pointedly on where Hamilton could feel the warmth of his release drip down his thighs even now.

Hamilton licked his lips, his eyes in turn lingering on where even in its softened state, Jefferson's cock was noticeably pressing against the purple breeches. “And I'll keep my promise. You'll have my endorsement.”

Jefferson's lips twitched. “And all I had to do was fuck you. Maybe Burr ought to have given that a try.”

Smug now, Hamilton returned the smile. He buttoned up his breeches. God, he was sore—but it had been worth it.

“No. No, that's not why.” He gave Jefferson a small smirk, enjoying his moment. It was always easiest to play with Jefferson when he thought himself completely in command of the situation. Perhaps that was what made it so enjoyable to bend to a few of his whims. “It's because in the end, unlike Burr—you're predictable.”

Jefferson clutched his chest in mock outrage, although Hamilton could see in his eyes that his words had hit him in a way Jefferson had perhaps not truly expected.

“But, my dear Hamilton, so are you!”

Hamilton flushed. He could barely walk. The worst thing was that he would let Jefferson bend him over that table all over again.

His plan hadn't really worked. This thing between them hadn't been torn away along with the mystery. But the craving had dulled, at least a little. Certainly this would be enough to keep him distracted for some time.

And in the end, with Jefferson as president, new disagreements would spring up.

He couldn't deny that he was looking forward to it.

“So I am,” he admitted, and then, with Jefferson inclining his head in mockery or respect or both, he made his way towards the door.

He didn't doubt that he'd be back.


End file.
